


A Song of the Old Gods

by JackTheLongsword



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Essos, Other, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, POV Original Character, POV Third Person Limited, Swordfighting, Swords & Sorcery, Sworn Shields (ASoIaF), The Grand Northern Conspiracy, Three-Eyed Raven Bran Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25745380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackTheLongsword/pseuds/JackTheLongsword
Summary: In this story I try to create my own story in the Known World of Westeroes and Essos. A new war is brewing. The many players revolve around the Iron Throne as kings clash, swords storm, crows feast and dragons dance.





	1. CAYLE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A freerider is sent to do a knight's work by House Stark.

The young swordsman hadn't slept well in weeks. The windmill's shanty rooftop made the spring downpour seem lighter. A bit but not by much. Though the rainfall had not eased in over a fortnight. Any man who grew up on the dockyards knew that the icey cold rainfall of a northern spring would freeze overnight. Cayle Snow critically analyzed the ferryman. "Why had he asked to be there?" was the only question fluttering in his mind. Everything seemed odd about the ferryman. The man slept wrapped cuddling around an oar as big as the giant's who were said to live in the far reaches of Beyond the Wall. Cayle Snow was of White Harbour, a low-born bastard, lucky enough to make squire to a travelling knight. Who was he to judge a poor haggard old cripple? The ferryman was called Henderson. A man who was shy his left leg and his right eye and his right hand. His jaw was a mess too. The disfigured result surely left from an axe or longsword. The vagabond swordsman looked away out of disgust. He thought of the knight he squired under. Only for a short time not near long enough to earn knighthood for himself. A disgraced knight who by happenstance had joined allegience with the northern calvary. Yet now years later as the Oncoming Summer had finally broken into the lands which so often had been kissed by winter. A spring storm seemed to be work of the old gods celebrated by drenching the North. It could turn to to blizzard. Although Cayle tried to pray for more warmth. A good harvest surely but twas poor for travel. A downpour this far north only added ice and more snow. The northener boy had not the courage to disgrace his old gods so he had not chosen to be knighted. When Ser Fabiar Royce died he left King's Landing for good. Or at least he hoped as much. Cayle was a man now, a fortnight past his sixth-and-tenth name day, his heart had gone out carrying his feet in search of adventure. He wanted with every bone in him to be a true knight. Yet to kneel in front the Seven was as bad as blasphemy to him. He might as well burn down a weirwood as he pray to it for guidance. The thought brought a malice yet cackling scoff as he was thoroughly amused with himself. He loved his gods far to much to even pretend for a moment to take belief in the highborn gods. It matter not to Cayle the title of his name. Out here, so far in the North, an honest freerider could make a good deal of coin.

I ain't no tunrcloak, not to my faith, I won't say no vows of theirs. My way is my own. Wait 'till dem buggers see me with a sword, then ey'll pay me dragons to save der highborn asses.

The whispers of wind only told him not yield to the temptation of the Septon nor the Ser. The rain was somehow just as heavy within the confines of the windmill's keep. The scorched ruins of the northern fisherfolk village had been pillaged more than once. It offered no resources only shelter from a freezing rain that could turn blizzard with each moonfall. As the coldness of daybreak often brought snow in the North. Cayle and his fellowship of misfits had found shelter in the southron edge of the vile loathsome little village. The wind tossled bricks here or there above but the wind was bound for the north. 

Just as I am.

Cayle was smiling queerly, he felt the width was cheek to cheek and hot on his face; a girl was present. A beautiful lady. A women no older than he. A highborn lady of a noble house, one of the Great Seven. He didn't think much too fondly at all of the Lords who ruled over the Seven Kingdoms. His wolfish grin of chipped teeth were too small as well as too few for his smile. His face closed into a smirk yet as equally devilish. His hazel eyes casted slowly to his right. He need not move his head. A gift he gained living in Flea's Bottom for the years he had. The summer would lighten the northern trek to Winterfell. Yet with the spring melting Cayle Snow knew how unforgiving the kingsroad could be. If flooded the horses would be stuck or not pass over. On foot the travel could take a moonturn maybe two or three if the Smallfolk Revolt was as bad as the ravens had brought word of. Cayle couldn't read or write. He cared not for the game of thrones or of the misdeeds of the highborn. Cayle only cared for his coin, where he get and how he get it and whom he get it from and not at all about why he need to do the work that he done.

Better now, not no thief nor a manslayer, I'll be a sworn sword of the Winter Kings Reborn. If this simple errand be done right, that is. I am in service to Winterfell, to Starks, or more so to the leather pouch of gold dragons I be promised by 'em. Pay me a sack twice as big and house me when I get back. Or at least I figure wolves would do as much. A lesser man may tink he be in over his head. Not me. I will find the child's killer if it be the last I do.

Pepper and Ser Owen the Outspoken where far off in the lower floors of the windmill. The bottom perhaps. Probably at the fire or tending to the steels. He could hear them. Giggling in the night. Owen was an old man. A former knight really. Although Cayle imaguned the title was kept as a courtesy. Ser Owen was a legend in the South. As old as he was the man had slain over two hundred men some said. Cayle could not believe the man had slain three hundred though he had heard that too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have lots written and will be posting when i can XD. Feel free to leave suggestions for POVS and such!
> 
> PS there will be violence but it is slow burning. There will be sex. And there will be lies, scandals, and underhanded schemes.


	2. PYM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young lad journeys into the North on what should be a simple messenger's errand yet somehow things find a way to twist for the worst...

"Wyllem! Wake up you fool! Wyllem!"  
The old man know not that his young apprentice had already raised for the morning. He had broken his fast. Afterwards he had gathered what was needed for his anticipated journey. The young lad had a smug but solemnly look upon his face. "Wyllem! You better be up orphan! Damned foundlings always a thing wrong with you"

I like the name Pym, that's why people who know me and know me well use it, you old wingnut.

The strapping sturdily built lad was only a single moonturn passed his twentieth name day. He was a bastard sent away from his home as a baby. A foster but was mocked more often as a foundling. Basketborn some even dare call him. Pym was attractive, never once paying for sex, a lad having no problems in courtship. If one could call his conquests as such. A lone night of quickly fading memory was hardly love nor was it near courtship. "The abbey won't wait for long! Go ready the garrons and your bleeding rounsey! We ride in three bells! No later!"

Yar, if you can still stand by then, 'pose that's why I get the horses ready.

Pym need not look over the solar of the shanty to see his tutor. The old priest was standing with his overhang of a girth, hunched but once ominously tall, his craggy wrinkled drooping face all but hiding his small beady black eyes. A woodsman who acted as a roadway guard as well as guide. A disgraced maester from King's Landing. The old priest had been banished northbound, to upkeep the castle of Highpoint, a place which Pym thought returning to was a loathsome ordeal. He wanted to never see that place again. His mind was cut from thought by his tutor's voice. "I found a man willing to take us. He will go all the way to Highpoint. Wait on hand and foot for just one stag a day. Oh me, oh my! It is an ode to the gods what men will do for silver. The coachman, not the most kindly looking man, may come by and linger around. Don't be alarmed. I told him to announce 'imself." the old priest said. Pym nodded from high above. Moat Cailin awaited them by nightfall. The old priest was in service of House Forrester. Pym shook his head to avoid his nightmarish memories at Highpoint in the wolfswood. Yet oddly enough Pym knew the search of the ruins at Moat Cailin would be the real hardship. "Are you sure about all this?" he felt his mouth move beyond his control. Pym heard the words flop out into the air from his mouth like a fish out of water. The lad cringed, his body stiffened with awkwardly, he froze solid knowing the mistake he had made. Pym did not move a muscle. He dare not flinch. He simply stay frozen in postion. Pym heard the door slam. The holy brother was left alone with his thoughts. Pym casted his bright eyes to the open window. The wood plank panels barely clung to the stone wall. He had a steel dagger and a slingshot and his walking staff on the floor beyond where he sat with his legs cross. He had a small axe as well already looped to his cracked leather belt. Pym looked out across the bogs. He looked passed the bad roads with green eyes fixed on the stable. He could see all three horses along the rest. The holy brother laughed out loud. To the abbey he had convinced the Grand Circle with an excuse of pilgrimage but this was hardly that. Pym didn't really believe he would find the holy relic of the old gods. He was firm in his faith. Still he could not help the doubt in his dreams. The ones which the Grand Circle called visions. Even with all the greensight in the Seven Kingdoms it didn't change the past. Moat Cailin had been ruined for over a century. Pym had not paid attention to whichever of his holy brethren had taught the lecture on Moat Cailin. What little he did remember was of no use to his search. Not until he saw the place with his own eyes. The north was a mysterious kingdom of vast empty lands that was spoke of with many reputations. Pym shuttered looking out the window. The latest blizzard had finally ceased. Yet the winter storm left behind three feet of snow.


	3. GARED

The emcampment inside the cavern would make do for the night. Outside the cold was bitter enough to kill any man. The three men in the cavern were not accustom to such weather. All sat on a stone they had hauled over from the inner maze of the cave. Gared Tuttle couldn't keep warm for the life of him.

He actually feared dying of frostbite. Everything was stinging no matter how heavy his garb was. Gared looked at the fire. His deep dark eyes fixed upon its flicker dance. The man had a jovial face with plump cheeks. His clean shaven jaw was square with a stong chin. He wasnt ugly but wasn't exactly handsome. Stuck somewhere between. He had big oafish ears sticking out on either side of his head. In his youth, a ghostly sheepish twig of a boy, who was on the fringe of death. His father had been a pig farmer. He was no more than a lowborn commoner. Until he was a soldier. Now he was a squire. Funny how that works. Gared thought spitting to his left in a puddle near his foot.

Lucky to be a squire I am.

Gared looked up from the fire to his companions. It made him fondly think back upon the fates that brought him to the cave. As he sat more than twenrt feet below the earth. He couldn't help but think of Lord' Manderlys need for validation. How the lord's pride had helped pave the way for Gared's adventure. For fifteen years his landed knight at Ramsgate, Ser Rupricht Bigglestone had stolen the glory off the back of Gared Tuttle's deeds. Gared not mind at all. As a squire it was his job to do as his master told. That was the way of apprenticeships and had it not been for the Merman Lord ambition and his sworn shield's cripple Gared wouldn't be the squire he was. The two might never have even met the pig keeper from Sevenstreams. He shuttered queerly at that as if someone walked over his grave. Gared who was half a decade shy of thirty was not a squire anymore. At least he was a squire in title but in duty he was already knighted. "One more job" his superiors told him. Gared thought of home with a sudden longing he hadn't felt since the war. He was a well-respected man back home. The name of House Tuttle had been hogwash five-and-twenty years ago. An honourable huntsman of unlacking prowess changed that. He smiled arrogantly at his family. If it wasn't for him the name would still be slung with the pisspots and shitpans. Gared shrugged on the thought. He was on his way to being a true knight nowadays. He always wanted that. A clean shave, a longsword and his armors. That was all a true knight need.  
Not yet but soon, he thought with a smirk.

The cave was a leaky miserable place. Normally abundant with fugitive outlaws now was three men shy of empty. The cavern was often filled by men or women fleeing from the consequences of whatever wrongdoings they had committed. Those who weren't of the North thought there was nothing but bogs or bad roads or snow when wandering odf of the kingsroad. This was true. Not as true as it was the many crannies that one could find laying on the land. One such place was concealed in the hollow of a tree. If one knew which stray branch to pull upon a small door came loose. Gared had found this place during the war. The men his garrison had been stationed with were Northern Calvary. In the blizzard of that year the men had sought comfort here, in the Catacombs of Neverwinter. It seemed only right for Gared to bring his own men here as well. Although he was not the superior. He knew that these two knights had lived under the safety of stone. These men had been softened by their caatles in which they hailed from. Gared's home was the road.

The young man sat with his eyes on his blade. For a good while he had been sharpening the simple yet magnificent longsword. Gared had bought the sword for a thousand golden dragons. A good chunk of what he'd earned during the war. It was worth every gold dragon. An exquisite masterpiece that looked befitting of a knight not a squire.


	4. VEYARIA

The archer's nest was was a lonely place most days. A land that often saw no change no new faces. The wolfswood saw most years as winter and in the summer it was rare not to see snow. The huntress who stood guard from an archer's nest need not fret about strangers. The archer's nest was perched towering twenty feet in the airl. From a top the roost one coud see all. Especially with a spyglass.  
The corpse was a woman there was no doubt about that. She watched the sullen faced young lad with a scrupulous glare. The young lad was wet to the bone. Unsettled by her crictical glossy dead eyes. She could be smelt from a mile away. A smell like a hundred years of death. A disciple, she called herself, at least her father had told her that much.

But a disiple of what?

In the distance she saw the lad's weary eyes ignite. His eyes had found her. She was shocked but she did not peel her dark eyes away. A northerner like him had never seen a real summer. He was like her and neither had seen what they did now. It was raining. For the fifth-and-tenth day a cold dampness of wet dense flogging fell to the lands below. The rain was an improvement from the more commonly known snowfall. The lad was on top his stout in saddle. The walking corpse guided the lad on his blue roan garron. The pair were drawing nigh, she could see his iron shackles, around the wrists his arms bound around his garron's neck. She knew the animal his by it's demeanor. It was scared. The stallion or mare, of which she knew not, had head bowed low. The trot was uneasy yet the garron looked to be sure-footed. She knew Lady Stoneheart, the woman corpse, by only reputation. She was frequent with the Great Houses but why would she be here?

Father said the stolen boy was who? His name I cannot remember. I wish I had now gor this stolen boy is prettier than I would have put money on. He looks to be my age or less. Surely not more. Not a man that small. If he even has reached age of majority yet.

Deepwood Motte's dungeon would be the lad's home from now on.


	5. ARVIN

The sure-footed garron neighed as it resisted the reins of it's master. The steward walked cautious ahead of his steed. This far into the haunted forest there was no path. Only uneven snow hardened by the constant bitterness of the freeze. His moleskin gloves kept his hands warm. Yet still his sword hand shook with adrenaline. The highborn orphan was just shy of twenty. He was well off with sword yet his steel had never tasted blood. Among the best of the recruits at Castle Black. His constant outbursts of rage had done nothing in his favour. It was in his mind that was the real reason he wasn’t a ranger. On top of his attitude was his lack of experience. He was still what the other sworn brothers called green. If he survived this adventure then surely he was bound to be taken on another. Maybe he could earn his keep in the eyes of his sworn brotherhood. Some acceptance. The privilege to remain out ranging. Arvin Reed was a good enough cook. His voice was fair as a singer, a talent he had hidden away desperately. People liked him enough on the long trek thus far. The reason for their untimely patrol was mysterious. All the men had been told to be ready for battle. Arvin had a strange glee in his gut. The idea of an awaiting skirmish made his heart thump with eagerness. A war party of wildlings had been seen from on top the Wall days ago. It was in the yestermorning that Dan returned with a prisoner who had sworn herself as guide. She was in bad shape when she was brought to the gates of Castle Black. Dan had done things to her.

Things that shouldn't be done unless the wench want 'em done.

Dan was at the head of the grouping. The march on foot had slowed the pace. The men moved a quarter of the speed they had farther back. Arvin and his most loyal companions were at the far back. The three young men stood side-by-side straggling behind the rest. Hank was the biggest of the group. Arvin was a whole head and some more shorter than Hank. The big lanky boy never spoke much. Although he was bigger, maybe older, he had bad posture. Always hunching with his arms slack on his shoulders. A curiously dumbfounded expression hung on Hank's face of his egg shaped head. Arvin was in better shape. A wide muscular build on stocky shoulders despite his lack of height. All of them clad in black. Arvin was shivering under all his ringmail and wool and boiled leather.

The woman ahead of Dan was barely walking. Her footprints looked wobbly. The lightness of her step worried Arvin the most. He had been on many hunts before joining the black. The woman was tied up by the the throat with a thick rope. Her wrists as well as ankles were shackled with heavy iron. She had barely anything to keep warm. The smallest of Arvin's two friends was on his left without a horse. The older man with only one hand had not been given a mount for the patrol. He was a disgraced knight of some sort. One that nobody treated with a shred of dignity. All of the other crows pecked at him so to speak. No one referred to the aging man as Ser which was unlike other men who held the same rank. Arvin had heard many men say, “you get what you want a top o’The Wall.”

But why not him? The old man must've been a highborn of some sort, a bannerman's kin surely, somewhere from the South. Maybe he was the Stark Guard who killed his own lord's heir. 

Arvin had no way of knowing. He had learned quickly not to ask questions among his brothers in black. What he did know of the disgraced knight made him suspicious of the man. He was a new recruit despite being older than forty and was missing his sword hand. Arvin knew the injury must've been only days old when the man arrived. Arvin knew this from the wrappings. Still the disgraced knight had it slung to his chest. Of the hand Arvin had heard two contradicting stories. Neither of them he believed.


	6. Chapter 6

The jagged narrow road was beaten within a long endless ocean of sand. The red fine grains blowing with such strong winds that barely a foot ahead could be seen. A trek across Dornish desert was not to be taken lightly. Between Planky Town and Sunspear one would find nothing. Any commoner or highborn alike knows that. The marching crew of sailors knew that. Water was scarce in all of Dorne. So far south there was little of the liquid to speak of. Water costed more than a sword out here. The price of water struck the young lord as very odd. The young prince had met many a smallfolk who lived solely on what the Lord provided. His uncle was a generous man. Since his departure to Essos he had not expected to return to see such change.


End file.
